


you turn me into somebody loved

by wardo_wedidit



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Gift Giving, Holidays, Knitting, M/M, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: “I thought you’d like winter, for someone who has so many sweaters,” Patrick teases him as they bundle up to head back to the store after lunch one day, smirking at David’s frown.“I like it as an aesthetic,” David pouts, fumbling with the buttons on his coat with some difficulty as he’s already pulled his mittens on. “I’m not opposed to fireplaces and hot cocoa and scarves? It’s just frostbite, and snow on designer cashmere, and black ice that I have a problem with.”Or, their first holidays together in Schitt’s Creek, David and Patrick decide to give each other homemade gifts, and David learns to love winter.





	you turn me into somebody loved

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver) collection. 

> __**Prompt:**  
Knitting. Who's knitting? For whom? Badly? Well? What are they making? Is it a secret or just a casual thing? Make it funny or make it tender, I don't care.
> 
>   
I am so excited to finish this cozy fic and participate in this fun fest. Also excited to finish something lately! I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Thank you to [Claire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cromarty) for figuring out the non-knitted gift months ago with her killer SC instincts! 
> 
> And thank you (as always) to [Em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/) for your edits and encouragement and the much-needed 1 AM hysterical laughter. Every last bit of magic in this fic? It's because of her.
> 
> The title is from [The Weepies.](https://open.spotify.com/track/66QyoDO2sBZAtbIWe8s93f?si=pDqf6AUqRzug_qrWUzXvGA)

When they first moved to Schitt’s Creek, everyone had raved about the weather.

Everything was _oh, summer lasts so long here!_ and _Fall is always so sunny_ and David was put off by it, at first, like everything else about this town, because he’d loved the seasons in New York, loved to watch the leaves turn and feel the first bite in of chill in the air and watch the city thaw out in the spring. He didn’t _want_ the unseasonably warm autumn everyone was raving about: he wanted wind and jackets and soft gray skies.

“Bite your tongue,” Stevie told him when he whined, “because what everyone is pointedly not saying is that winter comes with a vengeance.”

“I lived in _New York_, not Miami,” David snarked back. “Trust me, I can handle some snow.”

Stevie just rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because that’s the same thing as rural Ontario.”

Of course she was right. It was bitterly, desperately cold—he’d had to break out some of his heartiest sweaters, Fair Isle knits and fisherman sweaters, gloves and mittens that are more function than fashion. The season welcomed him with the kind of hostile winds that cut right through a pair of jeans, that chill you to the bone in the three minute walk from indoors to the inside of a car. And, much to his chagrin, there was of course truly unreal amounts of snow. When he wasn’t doing anything else, Stevie bribed him with promises of booze and weed to make him help shovel. The first time, the bottoms of his jeans ended up soaked through and his lips went a little blue and his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering even though he was simultaneously sweating under his winter coat, probably because he refused to wear a hat for the sake of his hair, and Stevie said, “You’re wearing long underwear, right?” and no, no he was not. The next day when the roads were clearer she dragged him to Target and bought him some. David didn’t want her to spend her money on him, obviously, but Stevie reminded him that this was only the first snow of winter, and he would definitely be shoveling with her again, and she would like to avoid yesterday’s disaster in the future if possible. So, he plucked a pair off the shelf, looked at her, and said, “Thank god they come in black.”

Later, when he was cross-faded and lying on Stevie’s floor, staring at the ceiling, he said, “I think I hate winter.”

It’s not what he meant, exactly. What he meant is a tangled combination of _I miss home_ and _I don’t know who I am here_ and _life in this place isn’t what I expected, and I don’t know how to feel about it_.

Stevie, bless her, nudged his shoulder with her toe from where she sat on the couch. She seemed to understand what he meant anyhow, despite the understatement of it all. “It’ll pass,” she said kindly, and David breathed out.

The next winters are easier, a combination of having an idea of what to expect and having his feet under him a little bit more here. And by now, it’s like he’s living a different life: he has the store; he has his family in a realer, more solid way; he still has Stevie, thank god; and he has Patrick now. He can’t believe he is lucky enough to have Patrick.

Together they’ve stumbled through so many firsts together: kisses and heartfelt songs and _I love you_s, and by now David has learned a lot about himself, including the fact that he doesn’t hate winter here, not really. He just knows his favorite way to experience the season is by looking out upon it through the cafe window.

“I thought you’d like winter, for someone who has so many sweaters,” Patrick teases him as they bundle up to head back to the store after lunch one day, smirking at David’s frown.

“I like it as an aesthetic,” David pouts, fumbling with the buttons on his coat with some difficulty as he’s already pulled his mittens on. “I’m not opposed to fireplaces and hot cocoa and scarves? It’s just frostbite, and snow on designer cashmere, and black ice that I have a problem with.”

Patrick just laughs, stepping in closer to do up his coat with his free, nimble fingers. “But you look so cute with your red little nose,” he says, booping him on it playfully when he’s done, not dissimilar to the way Alexis does. David feels frozen for a moment before following him out the door.

Patrick seems to thrive on winter. He’s the type of person who looks invigorated when his cheeks are flushed instead of just sweaty. He plays in the hockey pick-up games Roland puts together on the lake, and he teases David the whole time they shovel the sidewalks outside the store in a way that David could never admit his brain loves so much, is always low-key trying to make happen, and the banter makes time fly by. Ray is gone plenty of nights: sometimes for realty conferences and regional conventions for local business owners and sometimes at his boyfriend’s house, and so Patrick will invite David over for a movie and make them hot cocoa and snuggle up with him under soft blankets on the couch. He’ll even build them a fire in Ray’s fireplace, sleeves rolled up around his elbows, meticulous about how he stacks the logs and bundles up the newspaper and pokes at it, and David feels very affectionate watching it happen. It turns into a bit of a routine and they start to work their way through all the terrible holiday romantic comedies Netflix has to offer, and Patrick is stunned every time at the way David can predict exactly how things go. He tries to do do it too, but doesn’t have quite the same handle on the absurdity of that particular brand of film: his guesses are always too realistic and adorably simple.

“I just can’t win, huh?” Patrick says fondly one night as they settle into bed, arm rubbing at David’s back and pressing a kiss into his hair.

David tips his head up from where it’s resting on Patrick’s chest to see him better, smiles a little bit smugly. “You just need more practice, sweetheart,” he says, and Patrick rolls his eyes familiarly, kisses him, and then they end up not going to sleep for a little while longer but it’s worth it, for the way it makes David shiver from something other than the cold.

//

“Are you going home for the holidays?” he finally works up the courage to ask Patrick the day they decorate the store. It comes out with one eye defensively squeezed shut, half a wince, because he’s been meaning to ask for a while now and he’s still slightly afraid of the answer, as much as he wants Patrick to be happy and have what he wants.

Patrick’s on a ladder hanging garlands above the store windows, which is lucky because it means he can’t see David’s face and also unlucky because it’s bad for David’s nerves, even though he himself is steadying the ladder with two white-knuckled hands. “No, my parents are traveling to see family and it just wouldn’t make sense, given the amount of time I’d have to be on the road,” he says casually. Sometimes Patrick’s version of casual can sound a little fake, almost practiced, but this sounds genuine, like it’s not a big deal, and David breathes out.

“I mean, you should go if you want,” David says, because even if Patrick has his mind made up David wants him to know he could change it.

Patrick turns, smiles at him, and comes down the ladder, crowding into David’s space in a way that is probably a little bit inappropriate for 2 PM on a Monday afternoon. “What, to watch my aunt drink too much eggnog and get the same sweater from my cousin Jeff for the third year in a row?” He settles his hands on David’s hips comfortably, and David feels his own breathing hitch slightly in response. “I’m not driving all that way just to have the same Christmas I’ve had for as long as I can remember, David.”

Patrick’s looking at him fondly, like David is being silly. “But you’ll miss your parents,” he protests, and he doesn’t know why he’s doing this, is he _trying_ to convince his boyfriend to drive very far away and leave him behind, what is he thinking?

“David,” Patrick says patiently, pressing in to kiss him softly, gently, like he understands. Which isn’t exactly fair, because _David’s_ not even sure he fully understands. “I appreciate that you’re being generous and considerate, here, but my parents will understand.” He kisses him again, for slightly longer this time, hand coming up to the back of his neck, and David lets himself melt into it this time.

Just as he does, Patrick pulls away, and he’s got that smug grin on like that was the plan all along. David tries not to pout. “Besides,” he says, “I need you to show me my first Schitt’s Creek holiday.” He steps away, over to the counter to grab some ornaments, moving all the way to the other window and getting back to work while David takes some deep breaths to recenter himself.

“Okay, because I did have a point when I was asking that question,” he says, fidgeting with the moisturizers lined up on the table behind him so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. Patrick looks at him like he’s unconvinced, but doesn’t interrupt. “I was… thinking about gifts.”

Patrick’s eyes light up, and David’s stomach sinks because that’s exactly what he doesn’t want. “Before you say anything! I know you’re _very_ into giving gifts, okay, you don’t have to use the holidays to prove anything about that to me, you’re an excellent gift-giver.”

“I knew you liked the cookie, really,” Patrick teases, though not without curiosity on his face. “What do you mean?”

David screws his mouth to one side, bites his lip, and tries to find the words in his head. Patrick walks over, hands in his pockets, a look of concern on his face like he realizes now that David is serious. He breathes out harshly and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I just want,” he starts, cuts himself off, tries again. “With all we’ve poured into the store this year, I just think it would be smart if… we did something small? I don’t want—I don’t want you to do something big, something I can’t match—”

“Hey,” Patrick says, and David opens his eyes, and Patrick is shaking his head, looking determined. “I don’t want you to worry about that, it’s not, it’s not about that—”

“I know,” David says, feeling the confidence build in him. “I know it’s not, for you, but really, it would just make me more comfortable if we had—some rules. A limit. Because I want to be on the same page with you,” he finishes, and Patrick’s face softens into something touched, something warm.

“Yeah,” he agrees after a beat, nodding. “Yeah, of course, if that would make you comfortable.”

“Okay,” David says, reaching out for his arm, grabbing his wrist so he can pull him a little closer, play with his fingers, not have to meet his eyes. “So if I said, as little money as possible?”

Patrick’s quiet for a moment, and when David chances a look up at him, there’s something mischievous on his face. “Sure,” he says slowly, “as long as I get to add a rule too.”

David swallows hard in his throat, already sure Patrick’s going to use this to mess with him somehow. “Do I get to approve your rule?”

“No,” Patrick says, grinning wider now. “Tit for tat, David.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, then, I guess, since I don’t have any say.” He wishes he could let go of Patrick’s hand to really show him what for, but he doesn’t want to stop touching him either, and that desire wins out.

Patrick waits for David to meet his gaze and make an impatient face before continuing. “Homemade,” he says finally, and David groans immediately. “No complaints! I didn’t complain about as little money as possible!”

“You’re such a troll,” David complains, letting go of Patrick’s hand and moving away, but of course Patrick catches it, tugs him close, presses a breathless kiss to his lips.

“I’m just getting into the spirit of the challenge,” he teases, grinning, and this time when David rolls his eyes it’s too fond to really be effective.

//

When it had just been David’s rule, he had planned to give Patrick a bottle of the really good whiskey from a vendor connection on a deep discount. And you know what, he decides, he’s still going to buy some and call it a New Year’s gift because—whatever, it’s a good gift for Patrick and he’s been excited about the idea. But of course now it doesn’t work for Christmas.

He doesn’t know what to do. He has zero ideas. He spends some time on Pinterest and gets a lot of suggestions for soaps, candles, granolas… all things they sell in their store, all things he could ask a vendor to help him make, and that would be fine, really. Patrick would still like the gift, he’s sure, but David feels like somehow, it wouldn’t be enough. It would be too easy, and he knows it’s not a competition, but he wants to do it _right_, wants to see Patrick’s face when he opens the gift and looks at something David made with fondness and wonder and joy. It’s not a competition, but that would be winning.

He lets the wheels keep turning in the back of his mind. It hums along in his brain while he’s at the store, watching people pick up handcrafted things and admire them. He thinks about it when he pulls on layers to help Stevie shovel sidewalks, turning over options in his brain with each scoop. He thinks about it when he watches Patrick play hockey one Sunday afternoon, off to the side next to Jocelyn, who is clad in a bright red and green hat with an obnoxious, sparkly white pompom on top, chatting about last year when Mutt was playing and got some very colorful bruises, a story that makes David wince.

He thinks about it yet again one morning, getting breakfast at the Cafe. His mom is telling a story about something that happened at a council meeting, a story he’s already heard too many times, and so he’s idly watching Twyla behind the counter. She’s filling coffee cups, she’s removing plates, doing everything she normally does except between, she’s picking up long wooden needles and making something. David doesn’t know if it’s knitting or crochet or something else—he’d made the mistake of calling the cat hair scarves crochet before the vendor gently corrected him, which was embarrassing, but he still doesn’t know enough to recognize the difference.

It sticks in his brain, for some reason. He doesn’t know why it’s so appealing, but the idea of giving something to Patrick and saying _here, I learned how to make this for you_ feels like a revelation, feels kind of like the best gift he could possibly give.

His family gathers up to leave before long, and David slips away while they put on coats and scarves to lean against the bar and catch Twyla’s eye.

“Did you need anything else?” she asks sunnily, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Um, no, thanks Twyla, I just wanted to—um, what are you doing?” he stutters out.

She looks at him blankly. “I mean, I’m… working, right now—”

He shakes his head, he doesn’t know why he’s being so awkward about this. “No, sorry, I meant—” he nods his head over by where her project is sitting by the cash register.

“Oh!” she exclaims, lighting up again. “I’m knitting! I always make all my family socks for Christmas, but my cousin had triplets this year and I want to make them stockings too, so I’m trying to get some done while things are relatively slow around here.”

David nods, presses his lips together, tries not to feel too silly. “If I… wanted to learn how to knit—”

“I could teach you!” she interrupts before he can finish, grinning even wider somehow, which David didn’t know could happen until it did. “There’s a group, here on Tuesday mornings? I run it with Jocelyn, we meet before the Cafe opens and we have dessert and coffee and we could teach you—”

“Okay but I don’t—I don’t know anything, like, I don’t have any supplies, or—”

“Just bring yourself,” she says sweetly, giving him a pat on the arm before turning away to get an order from the kitchen. “Oh! And maybe donuts. 8 AM!”

David nods, and gives her a small smile.

//

Twyla had said it was a group, but when David shows up at 8:05 on Tuesday morning, still a little bleary with morning and shivering from the walk over, it’s just her and Jocelyn.

“Sorry, I don’t want to crash or anything,” he says apologetically, setting the donuts he’d picked up from Ivan on the counter.

“Oh, you’re not at all!” Jocelyn says, putting down her project and picking up her coffee cup. “People filter in and out. Twyla and I are always here, but sometimes Gwen comes if she needs help with a project, and Nick comes like every two or three weeks—you know Nick, he works with Herb?”

David does not, in fact, know Nick, and he only has a passing understanding of who Herb is, but he nods nonetheless. He’s still kind of hovering anxiously at the end of the bar, and Jocelyn must notice the hesitation because she pats the seat next to her and says, “Come sit, David!”

He nods, taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them up, sitting down in front of the open box of donuts. Twyla offers him a napkin and he takes one, glad to have something to do with his hands.

“So what made you want to start knitting, David?” Twyla asks, hands flying fast on her own work.

He swallows his bite of donut quickly, trying not to choke on it. “Oh, um. I wanna make a hat for Patrick.”

They _aww_ in unison, looking at each other, and David tries not to blush. “He has one, um, that he wears when he plays hockey? But I want to make him a better one.” Twyla looks at him fondly and Jocelyn seems to be beaming with pride, which is kind of a weird feeling, but also nice, so he tries to accept it.

“You could do it in his team colors?” Twyla suggests with a tilt of her head, and David nods, thankful, like he’s in an ocean of the unknown and Twyla has thrown him a raft.

“The Leafs are blue and white,” he says, still reaching for something solid, and Twyla nods, even though he’s sure she and Jocelyn both already knew that.

Jocelyn pulls out an iPad from her bag and shows him this website where you can find patterns, and pictures of the projects they made those with those patterns, so he can find a hat he likes. He’s impressed with the endless amount of options, and scrolls through ten pages before he finds five he likes. From there, they help him narrow down what might actually be doable for a beginner and get him down to two, and finally he settles on one just because it looks cleaner in style, something that’s a little bit him too.

“Okay,” Jocelyn says decisively, clapping her hands together. “There’s a big craft store in Elmdale. Next time, bring your needles and the two different colors of yarn. I’ll print the pattern and bring it next week. Let me write down exactly what you need.”

She rummages in her purse for a pen and he feels a rush of gratitude toward both of them. The cafe’s going to open in about ten minutes: George is setting up at the grill, the sounds of cookware are clattering around in the back. Twyla will open soon, and he needs to get his day started too, which now includes a trip to Elmdale. Thankfully Tuesday is Patrick’s day to open the store, so it won’t matter if he stands overwhelmed in the yarn aisle for fifteen minutes comparing two different brands of blue yarn that are nearly identical.

“I’m sorry that, um. Neither of you got any work done on your projects,” he says, a little guiltily, because Twyla had just been telling him how much she had to do the other day, and yet they sacrificed their whole morning helping him.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Twyla says nonchalantly. “It’s not really about that.”

She pours his coffee into a to-go cup, and the words echo in his head all the way home.

//

The craft store goes exactly as he thought it might, and he ends up texting Jocelyn the pictures of the two he he’s trying to decide between. She tells him that one is a little higher quality than the other, so of course he picks that one. Afterward, he drops his purchases at home—being careful to shove them all the way under his bed so Alexis doesn’t accidentally find them—and heads into the store.

Patrick turns to look at him when he comes through the door and says “Hey,” with a wide, gentle grin, and it knocks David’s brain back to the day after his birthday, the warmth and the newness of seeing Patrick there and thinking _we have something, we’re doing something here together._ That’s kind of what he feels now, and he can’t really put his finger on why, it’s just… he’s not used to doing this, he’s used to gift-giving being easy. He’s always thought deeply about what to get people, really taking pride in making things personal, but he also had a lot of shallow friends who were easily impressed by anything expensive, so the satisfaction wasn’t really the same. But now he’s making something for Patrick, something that will take time and effort and care, and it makes him feel like it’s the middle of summer and not early November.

“Hi,” he says back, and goes over and kisses his boyfriend in the middle of this gorgeous store they built together, hands gentle on his face. When Patrick steps back he’s a little bit flushed, but he doesn’t stop smiling giddily for the whole afternoon.

//

The second week is a little rockier. He has his pattern, his supplies, and Twyla walks him through the casting-on process twice: the first time she has to rip out his stitches because he’s done them so tight they won’t move up or down on the needles.

“Just relax,” she says, showing him again. Her hands move slowly for his benefit and loosely, casually. “Let the steps flow into each other.” When she hands the needles back to him David tries, does it again, consciously breathing out after each stitch.

Afterwards, Jocelyn helps him knit a swatch. She shows him how to knit and how to purl, and then says “And now you know! Every other part of knitting is just a combination of those two stitches.”

He simultaneously feels relieved and disbelieving at that. He’s seen some of the patterns on Jocelyn’s iPad, the complexity and detail in them. It doesn’t seem possible, but it’s comforting, the way she said _and now you know!_ as if he’s in on the secret now.

“It isn’t hard,” Twyla agrees. “It can be frustrating or take concentration, but once you know knit and purl, you’ve done it, really!”

As time goes on, David wouldn’t quite agree with her that it isn’t difficult. It’s slow going, partly because he’s trying to keep it a secret, so he’s working on it when Patrick’s not at the store, or when no one else is at the motel, as well as the group time at the Cafe each week. And it does take concentration. Sometimes he’ll try to work on it and do something else, like answer a question for a customer, and end up dropping a stitch, or with a snarl that definitely wasn’t there before, and he has to hide it in his bag until he can run to lunch and beg Twyla to help him fix it.

But the repetitive motion is good for his brain, in a way. It forces him to concentrate on what he’s doing, to quiet the anxious rambling inside him. And it helps to know that he’s not in this alone, that Twyla and Jocelyn will get him back on track if he needs it, always teaching him how to keep it from happening again.

“The first thing I ever knit was a baby sweater,” Twyla says a few weeks later as she refills his coffee mug from behind the bar before picking her needles back up again. “It was for my cousin’s half-sister’s kid.”

“A _sweater_? For a… small human child?” David asks, voice going high.

“Yeah!” she has, completely casually, with that unshakable Twyla smile. David’s still jealous of the way her fingers move so quickly and confidently even as she follows the complex chart for her stocking, like the motions are just second nature, something her brain doesn’t have to process. “It was kind of lumpy, and there was kind of a big hole in the back where I messed up? But I figured, Dylan’s a baby, it’ll only get messier, and this way at least they won’t be afraid to put it on him!”

He doesn’t really know how to process that, with the way he’s been ripping back with gusto whenever he has an extra stitch, no matter how many times Twyla and Jocelyn tell him he could just knit two together instead and no one will know, really. “You’ve… gotten a lot better,” he says diplomatically instead.

“Thanks!” she chirps.

“It’s just all about practice,” Jocelyn says soothingly, which David supposes is easy to say when she’s there plugging away at a _sock_, which has a _heel_. David can’t fathom.

“It is nice. To do something with your hands,” he allows, eyes flicking back down to his stitches. He kind of wishes it wasn’t a secret so he could do it more often, that’s how much he likes it, likes the feel of the wooden needles and the way the yarn slips in his hand. Twyla had taught him to loop it over his middle finger, how to wind the skein he bought into a ball instead, how to carefully untangle the knots he sometimes pulls out.

“That’s what I love about it!” Twyla says warmly. “If I’m stressed, I’ll just pick up my project and put some rows on until my head is clear and I can breathe right again. I sometimes feel like I was born to do it,” she says good-humoredly, conspiratorially, and Jocelyn beams at her.

“Hmm,” David says, looking at the mangled mess he’s somehow created in just the past few minutes. He sets the needles down on the counter. “I don’t think I’m quite there yet.”

They give him indulgent, encouraging looks as Twyla reaches over to diagnose his problem. According to her, it’s not a big deal, and she shows him how to straighten it out in no time at all.

//

“Oh my god, _what_ are you doing, David?” Alexis asks him, face all lit up from the doorway that leads to Mom and Dad’s room. She makes no sound and it’s one of the most annoying things about sharing a room with her, that there’s often no warning when she’s approaching. He didn’t even know she was home yet.

He shoots her a glare. “I’m _knitting_,” he says defensively, trying to focus on counting instead of the gleeful, mischievous look she’s wearing.

“But, like. Why?” she asks, bounding over to her bed and bouncing a little as she lands on it. “Oh my god, is Patrick too poor to afford a hat so you’re making him one? Or one of your vendors at the store dropped so now you’re trying to fill their whole order yourself?” She pouts out her lower lip, an overdramatic approximation of sympathy.

“You can go trip into a snowbank, Alexis,” he says warningly, and then softer as she waits, “but yes, it is for Patrick.”

If he thought her face was gleeful before, he clearly had no idea. She’s practically vibrating with excitement now. “You’re knitting your boyfriend a sweet little hat, David? With your own two hands?” She sets her hands under her chin and wiggles her fingers, blinking happily, and for some reason, it sets David on edge.

“We said only handmade gifts, okay?” he snaps, and she stops gesturing, nodding seriously instead. It still feels a little too sarcastic for his taste.

“And what’s Patrick going to hand-make for you, David? Maybe a cookie with ‘Happy Hanukkah’ piped onto it in icing?”

He’s thought about it some, but not too seriously. Patrick hasn’t hinted at anything, but then, neither has David. Plus, Patrick can just be such an enigma sometimes, full of all these skills and stories David doesn’t know a thing about, has no experience with. It could kind of be anything. “I don’t know,” he admits.

When he looks up at Alexis again, her mouth is in a small “o,” somewhere between shocked and delighted. David groans, annoyed. “What?”

“I bet I know,” she says, quiet and sure. “David, I bet he’s going to write you a song.”

David freezes. Fuck, how had that not occurred to him? It’s the obvious answer, it had to be, for Alexis of all people to figure it out, Jesus. “Excuse me?” he says, and he knows his voice is sharp and irked but he can’t help it. He sets down the hat so he doesn’t mess up because he’s upset.

“I mean, or arrange something! Sing you something! Maybe he doesn’t write?”

David thinks back to the conversation they’d had about the open mic, of Patrick teasing _I was thinking of singing an original song_, but maybe that was a just a joke? He doesn’t know for sure. His silence certainly says enough for Alexis.

“But I’m sure it will be good, David!” she tries. “Everyone said his last one was good! I mean, I don’t know, I wasn’t there, but even Mom—”

“It was _perfect_,” David interrupts defensively, and she holds her hands up innocently. “It was perfect,” he breathes out, softer, heartfelt, trying to calm down. And it was, it was the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to him in his life, easy. But there’s something about the intimacy of it, of sitting across from Patrick on Ray’s couch and having no buffer between them as he looks into David’s eyes, strums on his guitar and sings words straight from his heart, soulful, that makes David want to cover his face and break out in hives a little bit.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, with more confidence than he feels.

“Oh yeah, for sure, David,” she says easily back, rising from her bed and heading toward the bathroom. David gives her another look for good measure because he felt totally fine before this, this is all her fault and she might forget it by tomorrow morning, but it’s going to buzz worryingly in the back of his brain for a week. She flips her hair out of her face and closes the door, and David lets out a deep breath and sets his knitting on the bedside table, because goodness knows he’s not in a place to concentrate on it right now.

//

He’s determined not to spiral. He’s going to trust Patrick. He’d been wary of the open mic night performance and that had turned out fine—better than fine, even. Alexis doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

But it does get him curious about what Patrick’s gift is, what he should prepare himself for. He’s staying over at Patrick’s a couple nights later when Ray’s out and finds himself looking for clues, ridiculously. Anything that stands out, anything he doesn’t remember being there before would work, but of course everything seems exactly the same. Patrick’s too smart for that, so David has to ask.

“Are you…” he tries, rubbing hand lotion meticulously into his knuckles from the bathroom doorway while Patrick flosses. Of _course_ Patrick flosses twice a day, like some kind of superhuman, with the old fashioned string floss the dentist gives you for free and everything. God, Patrick’s gift is going to be perfect, he just knows, and David feels a rush of nerves about it.

Patrick quirks an eyebrow at him, a little smirk as he throws away his dental floss and steps out of the bathroom. “Gonna finish that sentence?” he asks.

David rolls his eyes, trying not to feel doubly overcome by the feeling of being teased and the way Patrick’s pajama bottoms are a little too long, so soft and domestic. “I just meant to ask how the handmade gift is coming along,” he says, following Patrick back to the bedroom as he turns off the hallway light.

Patrick laughs, confident, like he knows exactly what David’s doing. “Oh, I’m doing _great_,” he says, pulling back the covers and sliding between the sheets. David scrunches his mouth to the side to avoid giving away that he thinks it’s extremely cute when Patrick is smug, and crawls in next to him.

“Good to hear,” David agrees, nodding. Patrick puts his arm around him and David snuggles into his side. “Because I was going to say, since I know you don’t have any holiday plans with your family, that maybe we could do something on Christmas Eve?”

He waits until the very end of the sentence to tip his head to see Patrick’s face better, watch the way a slow and gentle smile melts onto his features as he looks down at David. “Yeah, I would—David, I would love that.” They grin at each other for a moment, stupidly, and when David watches these scenes in movies it’s hard to believe they’re real but here he is, living it. “Though, are you sure, if you have family stuff too, I—”

He shakes his head. “We haven’t really done the holidays since we moved here,” he says easily, and watches his boyfriend frown at this a little. He waves the concern away. “It’s fine, I just think celebrating here would probably depress my mom more.”

“...Okay,” Patrick says hesitantly after a second. David turns back to face forward and Patrick pulls him in closer, wraps his other arm around him too, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Ray’s gonna be out of town, so. You could stay over? We could do… drinks? And gifts?”

“And see where the night takes us?” David asks, voice lit up with humor, and he feels the rumble of Patrick’s laughter, the way he pulls him down into the bed and tangles their feet together, and David laughs too, shocked and delighted.

“I’ll show you where the night takes us,” he mutters, pulling David in and kissing him breathless.

//

The weeks in the knitting group fly by. People drop in some weeks, others it’s just the three of them. David likes both equally well, despite feeling sometimes shy when Gwen is there or when Ronnie’s wife Karen shows up, cursing a blue streak because her pattern is wrong. He’s awkward as hell the one week when _Jake_ of all people drops in to show Jocelyn the cabled blanket he finished.

More than anything he enjoys the way his relationship with Jocelyn and Twyla grows, listening to Twyla’s long rambling stories and never having any idea where they will end up, and hearing Jocelyn bitch about her sister, and the principal at the high school, and occasionally even the way Roland won’t pick his dirty socks up off the floor (though the majority of the time she speaks so fondly and highly of him that David is stunned and maybe even a little moved). He likes the way they laugh at him familiarly when he gets frustrated with the yarn, flailing it impatiently around, listening comfortably when he talks about the store or Patrick or his sister when stories arise, always with kind eyes and patient, open faces.

The knitting itself may have become its own sort of quiet meditation, but the support and, well, _friendship_ in the Cafe each week are worth even more.

David finishes the hat on December 20th, in the last meeting of their little group until the first week of the new year. Twyla shows him how to cast off and then he just does it, and Jocelyn talks him through how to make a pompom for the top, and then they both walk him through how to attach it, and suddenly, there it is. The two of them clap and cheer when it’s done, and Twyla puts another Christmas cookie on his plate, and David blushes and feels proud of himself.

It has a blue brim, a white body, and then the pompom is blue and white on top. It looks like Patrick to him, like it will go well with his winter coat, like he can already imagine Patrick pulling it over the pink tips of his ears. He feels the yarn between his fingers, so soft and familiar, and tries to memorize the bright, clean feeling inside him. It’s the same thing he felt when he first opened the store, a sort of pride and wonder at the way there was once nothing there and then suddenly, there was something, and David did that.

“Thank you both,” he says quietly when he’s done admiring it, laying it on the countertop and smoothing it out. “For all your help.”

“Of course!” Twyla says, smile in her voice.

Jocelyn nods in agreement, and then says in such an excited, genuine voice, “David, what are you gonna make next!” and they all laugh, and the sound warms him. He doesn’t know yet, but it will definitely be something.

//

When the day comes around, Patrick seems pretty flexible about their change in Christmas Eve plans, but David still feels bad about it. He was kind of looking forward to the way this holiday would feel, just the two of them. Their own little version of family, maybe, but now he feels very stupid to have let himself hope for that.

“Hey,” Patrick says in the back room later, massaging at his shoulders a little. “Everything okay? You’re not really upset about this party thing, are you?” David has maybe been moping around a little bit, and of course Patrick would pick up on that.

He shrugs. “I just—this is classic Dad. Christmas didn’t matter to him before, it didn’t even occur to him until the last minute, he isn’t worried about us selling the decorations for the store, doesn’t care that he’s ruining our plans—”

Patrick cuts him off, kisses him, and it helps David slow down a little bit, just thinking about the feel of Patrick’s lips on his. And the way he smells, familiar like his aftershave but also like the pine tree candle they have burning in the store, revels in the softness of his sweater when David’s hand settles on his shoulder.

He pulls away after a moment. His face is empathetic, just a little wrinkle between his brows and a small frown on his mouth. “I’m sorry this is dredging up stuff with your Dad,” he says. “I know I said we could do drinks any night, but really, if you’d rather skip out—”

“I think that would make it worse?” David winces, and Patrick nods, sighs.

“I get that. But still, it’s nice that he wants you guys to be together. As a family. I mean, I’m excited to spend the holiday with you all. Even if he could have maybe been more considerate about the way he went about it.”

David presses his lips together and nods. Patrick’s not wrong, there was a little thrill of emotion that ran through him when his dad said they should have a party. Knowing it would be different than the parties they used to have in New York, that the night would inevitably end with all of them together and not with David alone in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling and feeling the opposite of clean, pure Christmas cheer.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing away the thoughts of himself and Patrick as their own little… unit. “Yeah, it could be nice.”

Patrick smiles at him, like he’s happy to be there for David, or maybe like this means something to him too. David’s not sure, but it makes the tips of his ears color a little in the face of his boyfriend’s earnestness.

“But can you promise it’ll be just us for New Year’s?” David can’t help but ask.

The laugh bursts out of Patrick something beautiful, head thrown back and eyes crinkled with mirth. He pulls David in even closer, hands strong on his hips. “No big party? The town will be so disappointed.”

David shakes his head, insistent, trying to tamp down his smile. “Nope. Just me and you, some wine, some nice pajamas…”

“Putting the ball drop on TV and then forgetting to watch it?” Patrick fills in, and David loves him so much he has to hide his face in his neck, squeeze him close.

“I’ll block it out on my calendar,” he mumbles against his skin, and the rumble of Patrick’s laughter as he rubs a hand back and forth over the small of David’s back is something he wants to keep.

//

It gets worse from there, with his dad having a little bit of a temper tantrum at the motel, but then it gets better. All of them pull together because it’s Christmas, and his dad’s heart is in the right place, and it is nice in the end, to look around the decorated room and see everyone who loves them, to see his family smiling at each other and—present, together in more ways than one.

He walks Patrick out to his car, not bothering to pull on his winter coat because he knows he’s not going to be out there long. He does regret it immediately, of course, because he’s shivering and the snow is falling lightly, delicate flakes cascading down onto the grass and sidewalks. He shivers even though he tries really hard not to, and Patrick laughs, not unkindly. He steps forward, kissing him, and David thinks he could melt into the heat of him and be totally happy, just a puddle in the motel parking lot and content with his life.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” Patrick asks as he pulls away, a little bit hesitant, but David nods, trying to keep his smile small and under control.

Patrick nods back, running his hands quickly up and down David’s arms as if to warm him up. “Call me when you’re awake, I’ll come pick you up,” he offers, and David nods again.

“I’ll miss you,” he murmurs back ridiculously, even though it’s one night and he’s in a much better place about everything than he was this afternoon, thinks it’ll even be nice to spend the night with his family. He wills himself not to blush, and doesn’t know if he succeeds, but Patrick looks at him with bright eyes and love and the silly feeling fades away.

“I’ll miss you too,” he replies, giving David a kiss on the cheek this time before squeezing his arm and stepping away. “Have a good night, David.”

“You too, Patrick,” he says back. He’s cold, and it’s dark, but he watches Patrick’s headlights cut through the dark night until he can’t see them anymore before heading back inside.

He shivers when he comes through the door and feels himself thaw out. His mother and Alexis are over by the champagne glasses, bickering good-naturedly about something David can’t quite hear. “David!” his dad says excitedly, as if he wasn’t outside for a grand total of a few minutes tops.

He feels his eyes go big against his will. “Hi!” he says back, matching the level of enthusiasm and earning a laugh he didn’t really intend. His dad comes over and claps him on the back.

“Thank you for all your help tonight, David,” he says sincerely. “I’m sorry if this—threw a wrench in your plans.”

“It’s okay,” he says, maybe too quickly.

“No—it’s not,” he insists, clearing his throat. “It’s not an excuse, but I was so excited to spend the holiday together as a family that I maybe forgot it’s not just us against the world anymore.” The words come out with an embarrassed little quirk of a smile that stuns David to his bones. He clearly means it, and David didn’t even know he had figured out that he was upset.

It doesn’t feel like validation, exactly. He knows his parents think the world of Patrick, especially his dad. But to hear him acknowledge so openly that he sees Patrick as a part of this, of their holidays and their future and their _lives_, that David doesn’t know what to say for a moment. He thinks for a moment that it’s worth all of the day’s missteps just for this, because he doesn’t know that he would have gotten that without them, and it’s somehow the gift he didn’t know he wanted.

“Well—thank you,” he says a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say to express the feelings churning inside him.

His dad gives him a squeeze and a knowing smile and lets it go, moving further back into the room, saying “Let’s get some of these decorations down so you can put them in your post-season sale!”

David has to catch his breath for a minute before stepping forward and joining them all.

//

On Christmas Day, Dad wakes everyone up at eight o’clock sharp, which is kind of annoying, but they all eat fresh cinnamon rolls in their pajamas in their parents room around the tree, which is still just barely hanging in there. There aren’t any presents, but there are spiked coffees and soft slippers and it’s… nice. There’s a good kind of ache in his heart about it because he knows to savor it now, after all those years of not having this.

After, he takes a steaming hot shower, letting the hot water relax his muscles and really taking his time with his skincare routine. He puts on a pair of joggers, a t-shirt, and pulls a knit sweater over it before packing an overnight bag and bundling up to head to Patrick’s.

It’s still snowing outside but it’s not too heavy, and it’s early enough in the day that there aren’t many people out. Everything feels quiet, hushed, the way snow can make the world feel silent and magical and beautiful, like the inside of a snow globe. There’s just the crunch of his boots in the soft powder, a little bit of wind every now and then, and David feels happy. Patrick’s hat is in a gift bag in his duffel, and he had the most idyllic Christmas morning with his family they’ve ever had, and he feels warm despite the cold.

He knocks on Ray’s front door twice to no answer. Ray went home for the holidays until after the New Year, and while he doesn’t hate the cold right at this moment, he doesn’t want to wait in it indefinitely. So, he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, impatiently removing his mittens to use the touchscreen, and calls Patrick.

“Mm, ‘ello?” he hears, slurred and obviously just woken up, and David laughs.

“Sorry, I’m here,” he says, voice quiet like it matters, like he doesn’t want to wake him any further.

“Oh!” Patrick says, and he sounds more awake now, and David can kind of hear him scrambling around. “Hold on, one second,” he says, and then the call ends.

There’s less than a minute before the door opens, surely, but David uses it to grin up at the sky, as hard as he knows how. Just one tiny indulgence, because he’s so in love with Patrick that it’s sometimes overwhelming, that he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

The door swings open and there he is, in a blue heather t-shirt and navy pajama pants, hair slightly rumpled and eyes a little bleary. “Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let David in. “Sorry, did you call? Before? I thought I was coming to get you.”

“No, I just decided to walk,” David says, biting the inside of his lip so his face doesn’t do something ridiculous again. He sets his bag down by the door and Patrick’s pulling him in by his lapels, kissing him slow and lazy and gorgeous, and it’s everything David can do not to smile into it and end it too soon.

He pulls away after a moment, nuzzling his head comfortably in David’s neck. “You taste cold,” he mumbles against his skin, and David can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, I just walked from the motel, in the literal actual snow, so,” he says, trailing off, and Patrick is scrabbling his hands under David’s coat, under the sweater and t-shirt to get his palms on the small of David’s back, and David lets out a tiny little groan at the warmth. He pets Patrick’s hair. “You can go back to bed, if you want,” he suggests, feeling a little bit guilty but also so stupidly fond of his sleepy boyfriend.

“No,” Patrick says, pulling away, blinking forcefully as if he can will himself awake. “C’mon, I’ll make breakfast. Have you eaten?”

He heads for the kitchen, looking at David over his shoulder as he goes. David narrows his eyes slightly as he avoids the question. “Mm, what are you making?” Patrick laughs.

They end up borrowing Ray’s waffle machine. One of their vendors gave them a lovely cranberry sauce they spread over top, and there’s a can of whipped cream in the fridge to make it extra special. Patrick makes him a latte with Ray’s fancy machine, which David didn’t even know he knew how to use, and puts the kettle on for his tea, and they play footsie at the little kitchen table and it’s perfect. He watches Patrick slowly wake up, come alive, teasing him and laughing and looking at him like… _that_, like he loves him too, and David thinks wildly to himself that this is the best Christmas he’s ever had.

“So do we get to do gifts now?” Patrick asks from where he is at the sink, submerged up to his elbows in soapy water. The hem of his pajama pants are pooled around his feet, and his hair is still sticking up at the back, a little bit of bedhead that makes it hard for David not to smile like an idiot.

“Uhh, I don’t know,” David tries, brushing crumbs off his fingers as he goes to stand beside Patrick. He leans against the countertop, enjoying the way Patrick’s eyes flick down the long line of his body. He suddenly feels nervous about his gift, and about Patrick’s, and doesn’t know what to do. “I mean, before my dad so rudely torpedoed our plans, I kind of had a… different Christmas morning in mind,” he says, trailing his fingers teasingly up Patrick’s arm.

Patrick shoots him a skeptical look. “I’m sorry, did you just turn down an opportunity for _presents_? Who are you and where is David Rose?”

“Okay,” David allows, unable to stop himself from grinning as he speaks. “But I was turning it down in favor of _sex_.”

Patrick laughs, shakes his head as he pulls out the stopper in the drain, shaking the suds off his hands and rinsing them before going for the towel. He comes back, hands on David’s hips, one leg between David’s and pressing their bodies together. “I think,” he says, close enough to brush their noses together, and David’s breath catches, “—I’d rather have my present now,” he finishes, pulling away all at once, so quickly David feels like he has whiplash.

He lets out a long, deep breath as Patrick heads toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back!” he calls, bounding up them, and David squeezes his fists excitedly at his side, nails biting into his palms. He tries to distract himself from the fact that Patrick is probably getting his guitar by imagining a much younger Patrick on Christmas mornings, running down the stairs to open presents under the tree with his parents, childlike wonder on his face. God, David has to sit down, he has to _slow_ down, otherwise he’ll be so emotional by the end of the day that he’ll burst.

He carefully pulls the gift bag he’d painstakingly put together out of his overnight bag, going to sit on one end of the couch. He leans back against the arm so Patrick can take the other end, so their feet will be touching in the middle.

He hears Patrick’s footsteps before he sees them, but when he does, he doesn’t have his guitar at all, and David lets out a soft little _oh_ he hopes Patrick doesn’t hear. Now that it’s happening this way he realizes he would have been okay with it, really, because just seeing Patrick preen with glee over a gift he made David is enough on its own. But instead he’s carrying a small rectangular present in his hands, wrapped in gold paper, with a tasteful silver ribbon around it. He extends it to David with an excited smile, and David takes it carefully, offering him the bag by the handles, pressing his lips together as Patrick takes it with both hands around the middle.

He falls back into the couch, pressing his back against the arm too, tangling his feet (now socked) with David’s. David looks down at that, and then at the package in his hand, the perfect little edges he’d taped down, so straight and even. “Can I go first?” Patrick asks, and David looks up at him, takes in the way he’s practically glowing, and nods.

Patrick tears through the red and green tissue paper, digs around in the bag and pulls out the hat triumphantly, face going surprised and thrilled at the same time. “David, you _made_ this?” he asks, voice full of wonder even though he knows the answer, even though that was the point.

“Um, yeah,” David says hesitantly, leaning in a little bit as he watches Patrick turn it over in his hands. “I picked Maple Leafs colors? I thought you could wear it for your pickup hockey games, I know you have that other one but this yarn is softer than those store-bought knit caps—see,” he says, reaching forward and rubbing it between his fingers as if to show him. He knows he’s babbling, but Patrick copies the movement slowly, mouth still slightly ajar.

“Did you… is this a thing? Do you knit?” he asks, looking up at David like he is full of surprises, and David tries to feel worthy of that expression, or at least, tries not to think about it too hard.

“I didn’t, before,” he admits, trying to move back a little bit, put some space between them, but Patrick catches his wrist, keeps him there. “I learned. Twyla taught me?” Patrick makes a surprised face, but doesn’t interrupt. “She runs this little group at the Cafe, well, she and Jocelyn, and luckily it was on Tuesday mornings, since that’s your day to open the store, and—”

“How long did it take you to learn?” Patrick asks, voice so soft. David dares to meet his eyes.

“It took me a month and a half to make that hat,” he admits, a little sheepish, feeling himself color. Something in Patrick’s face flickers. “But only because I kept messing up, I—”

Patrick pulls him forward and their lips crash together, all at once. One minute he’s talking and the next, the words are lost in Patrick’s mouth. The kiss is warm and grateful and sweet. David cups the back of his head with his free hand, and Patrick guides the other onto his chest. David lays it flat against his heart, feels the steady _thump thump thump_ there, under his skin.

They pull apart after a moment and David pushes back, enough to see Patrick’s face. His lips are pink and wet from being kissed, and his eyes are bright. He looks so beautiful. “I love it,” he says, reaching for the hat again, holding it like it’s a precious thing. “It’s perfect.” He runs his fingers over it, slow and deliberate, before looking up again, biting down on a grin. “C’mon, open yours.”

David leans back again, glance flicking from his gift to his boyfriend’s face as he pulls the ribbon loose, slips his fingers under the tape deliberately, unwrapping it without tearing the paper. Patrick waits, patiently, and when it’s open David pulls it out.

It’s a leather journal. At first he thinks it must be _in_ the journal, what’s homemade, but it’s blank inside, full only of clean, lined pages. He turns it over in his hands, and this must be the front, because as he runs his fingers over the deep, cognac-colored leather, there are his initials, embossed in the corner, and he realizes Patrick must have made this whole thing, somehow. His mouth falls open and he looks at it more closely: there is careful, slightly uneven stitching around the outside, and he looks up at Patrick in complete shock.

“Oh my god,” he says, “You—Patrick, you…”

Patrick nudges him with his socked foot. “So, funny story,” he says, face all lit up. “I knew I wanted to make you a journal, because it’s a skill I’ve always been interested in and… anyway, there was a bookbinding class in Elmdale, three sessions, but I thought it might defeat the point of the ‘as little money as possible.’ I didn’t want to break your rules, so I thought I could just power through it on YouTube tutorials.”

David laughs, head thrown back, and Patrick laughs too, tips of his ears pink, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay, I see you’re figuring this out sooner than I did.”

David leans forward, wrapping his hand gently around Patrick’s ankle. “No, tell me, I wanna hear!”

Patrick gives him a fond, teasing sort of look before he continues. “Okay so, after a couple of botched attempts, I was maybe whining about it to Ray in the Cafe one day? And who should come along but _Twyla_—”

David gasps. “No.”

Still, Patrick nods. “Yep. Turns out she has experience with leatherworking and bookbinding too. All it took was a couple evenings in her living room, and she had me sorted out in no time.”

David runs his fingers gently over the cover, the places where it’s worn, the soft leather. “I can’t believe she didn’t say anything,” he says, shaking his head. He makes a mental note to get her something nice from the store tomorrow, while it’s still closed. He knows she likes the homemade bath bombs, but that doesn’t seem like enough—maybe a couple bottles of their wine selection to go with it? He’d saved some for them when it looked like they might sell out on Christmas Eve, with the intention of having it for New Year’s Eve, but she deserves it.

“I know,” Patrick laughs, soft and gentle, and then, a little more unsteady, “Do you like it?”

David’s head shoots up, eyes stinging hot. “Patrick,” he says, voice breaking on the word. “I—I love it, I love it so much.” He sniffles a little, hard. “You don’t know, I—I can’t _believe_ you did this.”

_Made this_ would probably make more sense, be more appropriate, but he means what he said. David has gotten so many nice gifts in his life, some of which he couldn’t have cared less about, others he discarded as soon as they went out of season. But he can’t think of the last time someone got him something like this, something this personal, that took this level of work and thought. He doesn’t know if it’s ever happened.

“David,” Patrick says softly, but David can’t look at him because he’s crying now, actually crying, kind of messy and overcome and very embarrassing. “Hey, David, c’mere,” he says again, leaning forward so he can wrap an arm around David and pull him in so he’s lying against Patrick’s chest, creating a little wet spot on his t-shirt. He kisses the top of his head and rubs his back until David calms down, counts his breaths, gets a hold of himself.

“Sorry,” he says shakily when he pulls away, wiping at his cheeks. “This is just—kind of the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten,” he says through a watery laugh, and Patrick beams at him like his face isn’t currently all red and puffy and ridiculous.

“I don’t know, I hear your dad gave you a town, once,” he says, a soft, gentle smile on his face.

David lets out a watery laugh, rolls his eyes. He hardly ever remembers that he owns the town, now. It doesn’t feel that way anymore, it just… it just feels like home.

“Can we go upstairs now?” he asks, almost petulant, trying to run away from the sincerity of the moment a little bit. Not because he’s afraid, not because he doesn’t trust Patrick—just because it all feels somewhat overwhelming right now, on this Christmas morning that’s been so perfect.

“Yeah,” Patrick laughs, standing up. He puts the hat carefully on the coffee table as if it could break, which makes David’s heart clench. Later today he wants to see it on him—maybe they can go for a walk in the afternoon and he can get a picture. But for now, he offers David his hand. “Yeah, let’s go.”

It’s a little giddy at first, both of them rushing up the stairs and giggling. They get like this sometimes, when Ray is gone, like it’s the most exciting thing in the world, even though they’ve been dating as long as they have. It’s breathless and fun and so different than anything David’s ever had before, so wonderful.

Patrick closes the door behind him even though they don’t need to, really, and pushes David back up against it. “Here, let me show you my _appreciation_,” he says, hamming it up with a cocky sort of grin as he drops to his knees. David laughs but tangles his fingers in Patrick’s hair anyway, gasping a little as Patrick makes quick work of his joggers, kissing his stomach and his thighs and palming him over his boxer-briefs. He mouths at the fabric, shooting devilish eyes up at David before working them down deliberately, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” David breathes, voice low and shaky, as Patrick takes him into his mouth. He feels like he can’t keep up with the mood today, the way it’s swung from teasing to sincere and back and forth, because two seconds ago Patrick was making terrible blowjob innuendos but now his cheeks are hollowed and he’s looking at David like he’s everything, hands tight on his hips, and David groans before speaking, his voice thin and delicate. “_Fuck,_ Patrick, the things you do to me.”

He knows Patrick would laugh at that if he didn’t currently have David’s dick in his mouth, a smug kind of laugh that drives David wild. Instead he has to focus on the quirk at the corners of his lips and thump his head back against the door to deal, eyes squeezed shut. Time seems to slow and David loses track of it, just hears himself make wanton, needy sounds as if from far away as Patrick gets him close, makes him come with a shout.

David pulls him up after, when Patrick is wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily. “God, you did so good, baby,” David says, short of breath himself, and Patrick lets out a little whine but seemingly can’t speak. Instead he tugs at David’s sweatshirt with greedy hands and David shrugs it off, t-shirt going with it, and strips Patrick of his own clothing with gentle, capable hands as he guides him to the bed.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he asks when they’re horizontal and he’s petting Patrick’s hair, eyes flicking over the flush in his cheeks, the need in his eyes. He’s covering him with his body as much as he can, which he knows Patrick likes so much, makes him go a little speechless and pliant.

Patrick’s eyes are wild and frantic but David waits him out, lets the words swirl in his brain and slowly form themselves on his tongue. “Will you ride me?” he asks, voice breathless, and David grins, kisses him like a reward.

He opens himself up and doesn’t let Patrick touch him the whole time, just for the way he becomes desperate and frustrated about it, which David can’t help but think is extremely cute. Then finally, _finally_, he slides a condom on Patrick and gets him wet with lube, lining himself up and sinking down, watching the way Patrick bites his lip until it goes red and sore with the effort of keeping still.

“Fuck, okay,” he finally says when he’s ready, and Patrick’s hands go right to his hips, moving so slowly and carefully on his skin, like David is a statue, a piece of art, something precious. It makes a lump form in his throat so soon, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through, when his boyfriend is so perfect and tender and _sweet_ with him, so careful where others have been so careless.

Together they establish a rhythm. Usually when David rides him it’s fast and hot, greedy, but today it’s a slow burn, an endless build, full of lingering touches and heavy glances and Patrick repeating his name like a litany and David saying _yours, Patrick, yours._ Patrick groans like those words actually pain him, like his body can’t handle them. When David comes _again_, ridiculously, there are tears streaming from his cheeks from the overstimulation and the raw feeling of it all. When Patrick stumbles over the edge shortly after, his nails dig into David’s skin and David loves him, he loves him so much and so fully and is so grateful for him, for every part of him, for getting to have him.

They’re both spent afterwards, and it’s quiet but for the sounds of their breathing. It’s comfortable in a way the moments after sex never were with anyone else, just the two of them slowly coming back to life together, happy and flushed and tangled up in each other. David gets up to clean them and throw away the condom because he’s a gentleman, and when he comes back to slip between the sheets Patrick pulls him in close immediately.

“Thank you for this morning,” he says, voice still hushed, like if it was any louder it would shatter something between them. “It was perfect.”

The words echo in David’s ears and he doesn’t know what to say, because it was exactly that, it was everything he wanted it to be. It was cozy and domestic and intimate and thoughtful, every moment of it. But he doesn’t know how to say that so he picks something smaller, a little piece he can offer of the big, messy feeling in his chest.

“The handmade gift thing was nice,” he says, into the warm, sparsely freckled skin of Patrick’s shoulder. “I know I whined about it before, but making something for you… it was really nice.”

He knows Patrick is smiling, he just knows. He doesn’t have to see it to be sure. They’ve gotten to that point now, where they can intuit these things about each other, and David loves that, loves knowing him so well. “For me too,” he says, moving a hand slowly back and forth over David’s back. “I liked—working on something and knowing it was for you, you know? Tailoring it to what I knew you would like. Seeing it go from an idea to a reality. It felt… special.”

It sets David at ease a little bit that Patrick feels it too, feels the specialness of it. He’s glad this is something they could discover together, teach each other. He feels like so much of his life here is catching up on what other people already knew, so much of time, but this… this was good. Makes him feel like there are other journeys they could go on together, that there are so many more adventures, so much more for them to learn. For this town to teach them. Hell, maybe Roland knows how to home brew, or something.

“Hey,” Patrick says, jostling him a little bit as he moves. “I have a question.”

David can’t help but brace himself slightly; years of bad experience with those words in that order will always make him a little bit skittish, he thinks. But when Patrick had used them last it was a week ago, and it was at that fancy restaurant in Elmdale, and the question had been _What do you think we should get for dessert._ So on the other hand, maybe not.

“Okay,” he says softly.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Patrick says, “Would you knit me a scarf? To match the hat?” and David feels himself grinning immediately, shifting in Patrick’s arms so he can see his face, see the gentle, tender look there. It’s a smile, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing but also that he truly, deeply means it, something bashful and shy living in it.

“Yes,” he says. He can hear the fondness radiating out of it, doesn’t even feel embarrassed. “Yes, I will knit you a scarf.”

Patrick smiles wider, pulls him in to kiss again, and David feels absolutely, ridiculously, full to the brim with warmth. He thinks back on the past two years, how he didn’t think then that winter could ever feel this warm.

“I love you,” he murmurs against Patrick’s lips. He feels Patrick’s responding smile, and it lights him up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wardowedidit) for exclusive whining about my next projects!


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